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THE LETTERS OF DAVID 



i 



This little hook I reverently dedicate to my Father. 



To Miss Mary Jordan of Smith College 
I extend thanks for commendation 
and to other friends J am 
grateful for their affec- 
tion for David 



MARTHA E. WATTS 




The summer of 1912 David Long spent at Shore 

Mountain and there waged a successful 

war with himself. 



/• *h 






Copyright. 1918 

By 

MARTHA E. WATTS 



C1A557200 



7I91S 



I. 

An Expression of Gratitude to a firm but kind Doctor. 

Shore-Mountain, 
May 30. 
Dear old "Doc": 

You gave me my choice between Heaven and 
this. It's taken me a week to forgive you "them harsh 
words", but now I ask your forgiveness for all the back 
talk I hurled at your shining head. 

"Heaven or this" — they must be synonymous! I 
didn't know before that the world had so much blue wa- 
ter and golden sand and waving trees and all those 
things the poets must have seen somewhere. I strolled 
up to the hotel today and took a seat on the veranda. I 
didn't notice by whom I was sitting, but I soon found 
out. A little voice at my elbow piped up: 

"Been here long?" 

"Over a week," I replied, mechanically, and turn- 
ed to see a silver-haired lady in a vivid, green dress 
bending over some embroidery. 

"Pretty place," she remarked, giving me a fidgety 
glance out of one eye. 

"It's heaven," I replied. 

"Heaven is where God is," she answered. 

"I beg your pardon for misplacing Him," I re- 
joined. 

But she hadn't convinced me. I quitted the 
porch and drifted down to the shore and lay there 
stretched out full length on the soft, warm sand. I saw 
the sun dip into the sea and gild the sky a reddish gold, 
streaked with black, slender clouds and the lingering 
light make a shimmering pathway across the waters from 
the skyline to my feet. As the sky grew dim and the 
light faded, I felt the tap of bad Little Despair at my — 
lungs, better say. Then a small bright star crept out of 

Page Three 



the darkness overhead, and Little Despair, being afraid 
of God's candles, sneaked away. 

Your grateful 

David. 

II. 

He would send Garden Flowers to a Society Lady. 

Shore-Mountain, 
June 9. 

There isn't an excuse available for writing to you, 
Betty; that is, not one I could appease my goddess with. 
Were she here, 1 could lay at her feet offerings which 
would bring a smile even to her sweetly disdainful face — 
offerings not of roses or orchids, but sweet peas and 
nasturtiums, black-eyed Susans, which a funny old Dutch- 
man with red whiskers sells for ten cents a bunch (the 
flowers, not the whiskers). When my cook Dinah saw 
the Susans this morning (black-eyed Susans are bought 
by bachelors of the best families in Shore-Mountain — 
alliteration is in my line), she said she thought them 
very ugly. Her remark so disconcerted me that I dropped 
the stone jar on the steps of the front porch with such 
a noise that 1 woke the baby sleeping on the piazza 
next door. His mother hasn't spoken to me since. 

I can see you now, young lady of luxury, probably 
seated this fine afternoon on the side lines, watching a 
snappy game of tennis played by two of your scrappy 
suitors, and surrounded by many more who are enjoying 
white flannels and silk shirts and silk socks. No one 
does things like that in Shore-Mountain. The flower 
man wears a yellow shirt, blue overalls and a green 
tie, which clash with his pink sweet peas. 

But how I wander from my subject when what I 
want to tell you is a "why" or two. Yes, Betty, 1 remem- 
ber 1 phoned and asked if I might come out Thursday 
night, and you said, "Yes", and I never came. What 

Page Four 



an ill-mannered brute you must have thought me! I 
deserve every inch of your disdain, but you are a good 
person to take things on faith, so I am asking you to take 
a pretty poor sort of a fellow "on faith" — a fellow who 
cares so much that he dares call you sweetheart, and who 
knew he was leaving you for so very long, that he 
couldn't bear to come and tell you goodbye for fear 
he might not show himself the man you've thought him. 

"Sweetheart" — Yes, Betty, because that's what 
you've always been to me and always will be. Were 
you the wife of the King of England, you'd always be 
sweetheart to me. I never dared say it out loud, but 
I've often murmured it. 

What a silly old ass I am! I've come out here to 
this ocean, these great stretches of glorious sand, this 
quiet, funny town to study! That's why I came. I've 
always known I was the least bit eccentric and used to 
think I'd fit right well in a padded cell. I could see 
myself beating a hole through the padding of the wall. 
But padded cells are not frequent now and I never 
could stand the luxury of a modern "State Hospital." 
Why! They have dances there and the last dance I 
danced was with you - - - 

I am studying here, and it is a delightful place 
for a "heavy" student. Take my sudden departure and 
desire to be away from the roar and glare of the city 
as composite bits of my natural eccentricity. I know 
you never suspected me of being a student — insurance 
men seldom are — but great mentalities sometimes ex- 
plode suddenly and here is one that has gone off like 
a skyrocket. 

Betty, don't say I can't write. If these old letters 
(Oh, the joy of pouring out my foolish manuscripts to 
you last year!) do not seem worth more than a "Mer- 
chant's Bridge" or a limerick postal now and then, send 
even that and I shall frame it. If even less — I have won 

Page Floe 



your interest (it is five years I've been working for it) 
— let me know if you are in Japan, Nebraska or Maine 
so I can still rant on to you. If, and this is the worst 
of all, but certainly something not to be disregarded — 
my ideas bore you and my handwriting gets on your 
nerves, don't read what I write, but let me think you do. 
Faustus says, "Let the fool live on in his ignorant folly 
lest, haply, knowing he is a fool, he sicken of his own 
jokes and die." 

Your fanciful one-time writer of policies, now sea- 
side resorter and student, 

David. 

III. 

Shore-Mountain is Described. 

Shore-Mountain, 
June 30. 
Dear little Love-Lady: 

Some people step to their back door and look 
upon a garden, old-fashioned, possessing hollyhocks and 
roses, and daises perhaps. Others look down a neat 
walk, flanked by smooth, green lawns, and their eyes 
rest at the end of the white walk on a small square, 
cement garage. And others — I can see one of this kind 
now as I used to know her many centuries ago; she 
wears a blue-checked apron, swings open the screen door 
and with one gesture brushes out a couple of flies and 
throws a handful of grain at the foot of the steps; there 
is a flutter, a rush, a squawking; dust and feathers ascend 
in the air, and many hungry beaks find yellow grains 
of corn ; the screen door shuts and in go the flies on their 
return trip. But it's all a matter of chance and we 
all have "the only thing" for us in the way of a back 
yard, I'm sure. Mine I would not change for any of 
the others, though once my selfish fancy pictured a happy 
combination of all three. For what I see from my back 

Page Six 



door, big, stretching as far as the eye can reach, and 
wide as no man could run in a week, sometimes blue 
and gentle, sometimes gray, tossing, flecked with rest- 
less sails, pounding the helpless shore with ceaseless 
thunder, lies God's ocean — my back yard. 

Thank you, dear, for the kind note. I know my 
sudden departure deserves no more than the short reply 
that you have sent to the first ranting of mine, but I 
have in a sandalwood box — one I got in India many years 
ago and which I have always kept waiting for something 
valuable enough for it to hold, a package of letters that 
you wrote me last summer. Is it unkind to remind 
you of those thoughts that you sent to an old duffer 
last summer? I can sit by my fire on the shore, way 
up where I build it, away from everyone, under cover 
of a bluff jutting over my sandy "study", and reread 
them these evenings and imagine they came fresh from 
your hands, one each week, so they'll last some time. 
It shall be my reward for a diligent week of study. 

What under the sun am I studying, you ask? 
I do study a lot under the sun. Today my study partly 
consisted of a crow — the blackest and most beautiful 
of crows. But I'll tell you of him another time. He 
was a most interesting fellow, I have a busy day before 
me tomorrow, and my fire burns low. So, goodnight! 
I'll bet that infernal Jack is calling this evening. What 
a way he has with him, too! Dog take him! 

Dave. 

P. S. I thought I could wait until next letter to tell 
you what else an all generous Creator has placed at 
Shore-Mountain — but I can't. Perhaps you have guessed 
from my letterhead. There is a rise of ground — not far 
from my front door, and when a visitor catches his 
breath he may climb it - and - lo - Betty - not many 
miles distant — the hills — worthy of the name of moun- 
tains. It's splendid! 

Page Seoen 



IV. 

A Philosopher discusses Mail-Men and "Souls." 

Shore-Mountain, 
July 11. 

My Lady of Light: 

The sun didn't get up with the rest of us this 
morning. My old black cook didn't smile when she 
said, "Bad day, today, Marse Tom." Things predicted 
rain and a bad grouch for "Marse Tom." Then the 
postman, who usually with careful study avoids my gate, 
turned in and put into my hands (God bless him!) a 
blue note bearing two green stamps and the loveliest, 
scrawly handwriting in the world. 

"Beautiful day, " I said, with more good humor 
than sense, and the old postman grinned and hurried on; 
and ever since the sun has been shining, though the 
natives, being blind, walk by my gate with umbrellas 
raised high overhead. 

You are "a little tired of the tennis and launch 
rides and many people" and you think you'll "run back 
to the city and drop in on Marje and children for a week 
end and whirl away Bob and Mary for a week's outing." 
Dear angel! Oh, I know you want no commending, but 
I could sing your praises till Gabriel gave me a harp and 
wings to hush my feverish cries! 

Back in the city where men make mostly money 
and see only smoke, people do grow sort of tiresome. 
But here, where I have formed the habit of study, I 
have found more interesting things even than books. 
I have drifted into a study of "souls." 

It seems to me there are two kinds of souls; the 
one whose windows open outward; and the one whose 
curtains are drawn and whose blinds are shut. Beautiful 
souls and some not so beautiful — and sometimes, the 
most lovable souls have the queerest houses to live in. 

Page Eight 



My cottage is up the beach, away from the hotel 
and settlement. This morning, I was seated with my 
back against a rock, surrounded with books, my eyes 
drifting in spite of me across the water, my mind far 
away, when I heard voices and turning, saw two, small 
queer figures who had come to a halt near me. One was 
a small boy, little but sturdy, with rosy cheeks — a small 
volcano of life and energy. 

"Won't you go farther. Aunt Joy?" he was plead- 
ing. 

The answer came in a halting, breathy tone from 
the lips of the saddest looking person I have ever seen. 
She was thin and tiny and pitiful. Her little bent back 
was supported by a cheap worn crutch; her dark, deep- 
set eyes looked out of a pale, hollow-cheeked face, and 
the wind playing havoc with her black hair had loosened 
it till the scrawny locks formed a weird frame to her 
white face. 

"1 am a little tired, Jacky, "came the answer, "but 
if you will wait a minute, I think 1 can go on soon." 

Jacky had to wait more than a minute, for no 
sooner were the words uttered than the crutch slipped 
from under her and she fell in a tired heap on the sand. 
1 was glad 1 happened to be near and that Jacky had 
a pail in which to carry water from the sea to her hot 
head and wrists. It happened too, that Dinah had been 
looking down on the beach from the cottage and, seeing 
what had happened, came to our help and knew just 
what to do. 

When the girl regained consciousness, she was in 
my living room. It is a half-study, half-living room 
with many windows, lots of air, a cheerful fireplace at 
one end. It never had struck me as funny, but I guess 
it is, at least to a woman's view point, for when the 
cripple "came to", she sat on the edge of the sofa looking 
about, nervously. First she saw Jacky sitting by the 

Paie Nine 



fire and a comfortable smile crinkled up her eyes. Then 
she gazed around the room, looked at Susan and me, 
at my pipes, books and the few pictures I have, and 
burst into peals of joyous laughter. We surely touched 
her sense of humor. She had Susan and Jacky roaring 
with her before long and I being so glad to know that 
she wasn't dead, that, though the joke seemed to be on 
me, I laughed too. 

It seems that she and her small nephew are here 
for their health. When she said "our health" I looked 
at Jacky's rosy cheeks and remarked that he surely 
looked well. Her smile — which had almost made me 
lose sight of the homeliness it hid — vanished when I 
said this and she replied plaintively, "1 try to make 
myself think it's for 'our health'; otherwise, I should 
feel so selfish spending the money if he didn't need it 
too, but you see anyway he needs me, so it's all right." 

She was simple in her thanks to Susan and me, 
but we knew her gratitude came from her heart. When 
I left her at the hotel, she held out her hand to me and 
said, "I'm sorry I fainted and gave you so much bother. 
Jacky and I thank you, and I am sorry I laughed in such 
an undignified manner. It wasn't at you or your dear 
cottage, but because I've watched you and your house 
and wondered what it was like and then when I saw it, 
it was so unexpected, so different, so mannish and so 
nice that my imagination found it had drawn an entirely 
wrong picture and laughed at itself." 

What a long letter! Betty has probably gone to 
sleep over it. But since she has given me permission 
to ramble on to her as a diversion from my studies, I 
am taking her at her word. Blessed diversion! Good- 
night. 

Page Ten 



V. 

A Slight Discussion of "Symptoms." 

Shore-Mountain, 
July 19. 
Dear Doc: — 

So it is details you want! Be prepared for an 
encyclopedia. As to my health — first and foremost, I 
should feel defiance against any man who said I was a 
**T. B." But then I remember the word of a doctor and 
he is a student and a man much interested in lungs, 
and he has told me with all truth and with only regret. 
Ye gods! The memory of that day! Sometimes the 
old "well" feeling surges over me as this wonderful sea 
air rushes into my mutilated lungs. I take an awfully 
long walk to prove myself the same old scout. But 
what happens? That which happens to all fools — and 
once more I find myself againt the same old wall. But 
each day. Doc, knocks off a row of bricks, and though 
I can't see the Garden of Health on the other side, 
sometimes the sea blows over the scent of violets and I 
get to dreaming of the day when I shall be able to wander 
again in that garden. Don't worry. I know I've 
got "it" and that I shall probably never come back to 
civilization and work and — you know what else. 

A frank report? Well, sometimes I feel that even 
the loving care and attention of trusty old Dinah and all 
this sea air couldn't build up this shattered frame to 
last one week longer. Perhaps that will happen and 
my boat shall soon put off to sea. But it will not matter, 
for the waves will come up and destroy all my wayward 
footprints in the sand. I've put, old man, the only 
things worth while in life — my work, my resolves (funny 
things), my hopes, and, biggest of all, my love for her — 
in one sand castle. May God let that stand. 

Does she write? Yes; and you've worked the 
deception well for me. I was afraid that you wouldn't 

Paga EUo*n 



understand when I asked you, who had discovered 
to keep my secret. But you have a wealth of feehng 
and you saw that harder to endure than the reaHzation 
of my weakness would have been her pity, since I had 
not won her love. 

To my surprise the "Onward" accepted a few of 
those old pamphlets on "psych" I wrote last winter. 
They published one last week. Did you see it^ She 
did, and wrote me a note to tell me she had forgiven my 
isolation for she saw that it was meaning real study. 

I have just opened a letter from Gerard. Nice 
chap! He said he thought me the "durndest" of grinds 
to retire to the open to study, but that he had seen the 
"Onward" and realized that "geniuses must genuisite." 

So, I thank you. Doc, for helping the deceiver along. 
He's a queer duffer, but you must humor his pride, you 
know. Don't think of coming up here. There's not 
a thing you can do for me and I wouldn't have you 
leave all those sick people. If I need you, I'll wire. 

How's the Queen? I see the entries for the horse 
show are in order. Enter her. She's the proudest, 
queenliest, little stepper of them all. Her presence will 
make that place shine. 

Your "lunger" 
David. 

VI. 

A Letter where Shadows and Visions Appear. 

Shore-Mountain, 

July 25. 
My Sweetheart: 

To-night (it was the old fire's fault) I learned to 

believe in shadows and visions. "The fire won't burn, 

the dog won't bark, the stick won't beat" — did you ever 

know about the little pig that wouldn't go over the 

bridge? We kids, in the Golden Age long ago when 

we were kids, used to sit around the fire and Grandmother 

Page Tweloe 



would tell us about the pig, and by the time the little 
pig got over the bridge we were all nodding and ready 
for Sleepy Land. It was much better than sheep going 
over the fence, for it always worked. I tried it this 
evening with my small niece and nephew. We sat be- 
fore the sizzling logs and 1 wove weird yarns, till my own 
head fairly spun, but not theirs. Their eyes grew wider 
and wider and I could feel their little hearts thumping 
against me, as we all sat huddled up in the big arm chair. 

"Another tory. Uncle David," was the period with 
which they dotted every one of my wild tales. Marie 
dropped in from the sky (a habit of hers) this morning 
and left the tots with me while she ran over to Kayou on 
business. I took them for a street car ride this after- 
noon and what they didn't find to do wasn't on that 
street car. Mary Anne, aged four, regarded all the sheep 
and cows and cats I could find on the landscape with 
disdain. I desisted in my attentions to her and was 
delving under the seat after a nickel small Tom had 
lost and must discover, when I felt Mary Anne's claws 
in my neck. I rose with a jerk, landed the nickel in 
Tom's thankless paw and my hat in the aisle, only to 
see Mary Anne's round, sunburned face a mass of wrinkles 
and awe as she gazed at a prize she had snatched from 
the head of a lady in front of her. I blush at the recall 
as I did, as the realization of her deed came upon me. 
For five minutes, which seemed three hours, I sat para- 
lyzed, while Mary Anne fingered that detachable, golden 
curl and cooed her pleasure at finding a thing so beautiful 
and at the same time so easily to be had. Her delighted 
murmuring, growing louder, began to attract the gaze 
of the other occupants of the car, save that of the woman 
who had been robbed. She was nodding. I knew that 
if I took that curl from Mary Anne's hand a shout 
would rise which would certainly disturb the sleep of 
the unconscious woman. Something must be done. 

Pais Thirteen 



"Let Uncle David see," I whispered, smiling in 
mock admiration at the golden goods. Mary Anne 
opened her hand and disclosed the thing to which the 
curl was attached. My heart sank deeper. The points 
of the pin were hidden in the hair and I could see no 
way in human skill to put back in the tangled yellow 
mass before me the curved wire end. 

Then a thump, quick and light, and a shadow 
at my side caused me to turn. The dark figure was no 
other than the little cripple. In a second, her slim 
fingers had snatched the curl from Mary Anne's grasp 
and it was back in its accustomed place (I'm sure of 
that), in the unconscious hair — I mean in the hair of 
the unconscious head of the woman. Not only that, 
the surprise of it all had so taken Mary Anne that she 
could not utter a sound. 

"Let her come across in our seat and play with 
Jacky's dog ", suggested the little woman, pulling up her 
crutch. So a blushing uncle, endeavoring to be oblivious 
of the titters on all sides, bounced his precocious young 
niece across the aisle and — so wonderful are the ways 
of women — completed the journey without further ad- 
venture. 

And this evening, when the fire failed to coax 
the Sand Man to enter and scatter sleep on wide-opened 
eyes, a vision of Grandmother, quiet and trim in her 
soft, black gown and cap and kerchief, was spirited 
from the flames. So uncle David began to try and get 
the little pig to go over the bridge and before he could 
hope for it, the two monkeys had fallen asleep. 

That's one vision I've had to-night. And the 
other? Sweetheart, a painter of sunsets would never 
attempt to realize a beautiful vision I see in these flames. 
Yet it is here, very real, true, breathing, smiling, smiling 
with eyes that are wondrously sweet. I see arms so 
soft and hands so gentle that the weakest of things 

Page Fourteen 



would find strength in their contact. Oh, forgive me 
for my vision, for I pledge you my word that I shall 
never seek the real presence again, but shall sit at my 
fireside many miles away and be only a foolish 

"Dreamer." 

VII. 

He is Concerned about "Infection." 

Shore-Mountain, 
Aug. 3. 
Just a line, dear old Doc: — 

I mean it this time. I want to ask a question. 
Will you let me know as soon as possible if my associating 
with people in the least endangers their blessed health? 
I ask this, because I've discovered that the "little Crip", 
as she describes herself, has been living off of two scant 
meals a day (not a word from them of this, however) 
and I've found an excellant plan to get them well fed. 
We've been having beautiful bats on the beach (haven't 
lost that alliteration habit yet). They've consented to 
sup with the bachelor before the camp fire whenever 
he feels a lonsome spell coming on. So, when the weather 
is good, the loneliness manages to come on every night. 
And with the world for one's dining room, one eats — 
well, one is ashamed to say how much, but it's a great 
deal better than going to bed with that "empty feeling." 
I've known it in boyhood days "when the cupboard 
was bare", so I mean in some way to see that "Crip 
and Jacky get fed so they can go off to sleep with a com- 
fortable feeling inside. But if I am doing them harm, 
I am defeating my purpose which is, God willing, to 
help little "Crip" get well and strong. Therefore, Doc, 
will you tell me how much I can have to do with humanity 
or, how much the bachelor, the hermit must play? If 
you think my ignorance is basely absurd, fire away. 
But you see I never studied disease before, thinking it 
rather an unmanly thing. So I've got to learn. 

Page Fifteen 



Thanks. I'ln glad you liked the last article in 
the "Onward." What do you think it did? It brought 
me an offer for the chair of Philosophy at Raverdale. 
How is that for your hollow-cheeked, idling, 

Dave? 

VIII. 

He has Several Things to Say. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Aug. 10. 
Bless your kind heart: 

For that "worry", but believe "Uncle Dave" 
right now, Betty, life's going smoothly with the student 
at Shore-Mountain. How do you like the name? 
Has a kind of lazy sound, hasn't it? And gives the idea 
that it is the kind of place where one sits in the sand 
and lets Nature do all the worrying. And worrying it 
can do. 

Early this evening — I have never seen a quieter 
sea or a more peaceful sky — 1 had my cot out on the 
porch and lay there thinking over what a nice bat we 
had had on the shore, watching the silent sea and the 
sky with only the stars to light it. Somehow I believe 
I like the stars better than the moon — they are un- 
pretentious, making no boast of much candlepower. 

It was just dawn when I awoke. A very near 
knocking of thunder caused me to sit up with a start. 
The sky was a lowering black, more awful as through 
the darkness of it one could see an occasional beautiful 
tint of dawn or catch the faint glimmer of a fading star. 
The heavens were scowling and moving their black clouds 
over a sea, black and seething. The waves pounded 
the shore with fierce reiteration. Now and then a flash 
of lightning sprang through the clouds and leaped into 
the sea. 

But the wonderful part of it all was that the 
real storm never came. The intensity of the threaten- 

Page Sixteen 



ing was appalling but gradually, as I waited and ex- 
pected that at any minute the burst might come and 
that Dinah and the cottage and I might be carried in 
a rushing torrent out to sea, gradually the lightning 
flashes became less frequent; slowly, almost impercep- 
tibly, the black clouds faded into a negative grayness; 
the thunder seemed to be rolling a little farther away 
each time and the crash of the waves on the shore less 
terrifying. At last, the glow of morning came, like a 
beautiful dream, through the clouds, and I heard no 
sound but a gentle swish of the waters on a rose-tinted 
shore. It seemed almost as though I had seen the awful 
figure of Death rush at the door of someone and then 
vanish in thin air and in her place, wonderfully good 
to see, stood Life, with a smile on her lips and but a trace 
of tears in her eyes. It put harmony in my heart and 
a desire for music in my soul. So this morning I un- 
wrapped "Amati" — so long boxed and swathed in 
chamois. Betty — it's a dear fiddle — isn't it? The tone 
of it has a way of "pulling your heart strings." I wish 
I had had your sympathetic fingers at a piano. 

Do you know the clever postman has dis- 
covered my secret? How do you suppose he did it? 
I admit that when one has seen that scrawly, character- 
istic handwriting of yours, one doesn't forget it. And 
then, I must have an "open face." I've always hated 
open faces; they make me think of alarm clocks and 
idiots. At any rate, when that blue-coated gentleman 
walks in at my gate, I can tell by his expression whether 
he is bringing "one " or not. And this morning — well 
he was beautiful — handsome doesn't express it. He 
grinned until I was afraid he'd never get his mouth to- 
gether again. And handing it to me (not the grin, thank 
the Lord!), he said in silvery tones: 

"The sun's out this morning, sir," which was a 
lesson to me to put on a smiling front whatever the 
weather or the mail. 



Paie Secenleen 



So you've learned to paddle. What a versatile 
lady Betty is! Now you can swim — I've seen and 1 
know — but remember, Ed Thomas cannot and though 
he'd be able to float I'm sure (Oh, jealously bitter re- 
mark! What cats men are!), yet there are rocks in the 
Maple River and if ever young Thomas is missing and 
a heart without an owner is found speared by the point 
of a rock on the banks, the crime will be laid at the door 
of a lady who is known to have "led on" the young 
gentleman, a young lady who has slaughtered the hearts 
of men who are loath to consider themselves of a "past 
generation." 

"Past generation!" The hearts do not suffice, 
cruel woman. She must put her dainty, sharp-heeled 
slipper on the neck of their vanity too! Since when 
have I deemed myself your "Uncle Dave" or an admirer 
of the "past generation"? It's this, let's say, dear 
sweetheart, (if my heart says dear, why can't my pen?) 
it cheers me sometimes to think I'm an old admirer 
of the "past generation" who has entirely forgotten 
his painful passion and can address in an "uncle-ly" 
fashion the lady who made him become just a plain 
fool very much in love. "Once? " "In love? " What 
a queer way to put it. If to be "in love" is to have 
every thought a part of her world, is to make every wish 
a fairy godmother with a gracious gift for her — if it 
is to will to speak only words that she would be glad to 
hear, and to will to do only deeds that she would call 
"fair and square" — then I've been there sometime and 
call it "living." 

The "Crip" and Jacky have rented a small cottage 
up in the mountains, about a mile from me. I wandered 
to their home last evening and took tea with them. 
"Amati" accompanied me and we had some music. It 
was a "homey " evening and inspired me to write this 
poor verse: 

Page Eighteen 



"The Basket." 

The weary day was o'er. 

When I with basket always bare 
Tapped the welcoming door 

Of two new friends; 
And in the candle's gentle glow we dined. 

Morning is at hand — 

And here before my basket small 
I, quiet, thoughtful, stand. 

For it is filled 
With violets, violet — memories I find. 

David. 

IX. 
Which Contains Some Advice. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Aug. 19. 
Dear little Betty: 

It's worth growing old, it's worth being a prosy 
toad, and even a grind, for what I got from you today. 
Even more I should be willing to gather shells, pink, 
blue, lavender shells, big shells and little shells, rising 
with the sun and seeing her set every day in the week, 
every week in the year, for years, for what this day has 
brought me — the realization that you could carry to 
me a trouble. Dear girl, gratitude and wonder that you 
so trust me fill my heart to an extent of which I did not 
think it was capable. That you may never regret ask- 
ing me to help you and that my answer may at least 
put the right spark in your strong mind is my wish. 
You think that my fifteen years more of experience in 
this puzzling old world can bring you the wisdom that 
you so need. Bless your heart, is it a question of wis- 
dom? In the courts of Love, alas. Wisdom sits on a 
stool at the feet of Affection, in rags and tatters, without 
even a slate on which to write a sane, sensible remark. 

Pagt Nineteen 



I have read every word of your letter not less than 
five times and have thought hard. You say that you've 
known him four years. Yes, I remember the day that 
Bob brought him to call on you. We were sitting on 
the veranda drinking lemonade. My! What a hot after- 
noon! And I thought as Sidney stepped out on the 
veranda in his white flannels, his frank eyes looking 
straight into yours, — I remember 1 thought he was the 
most perfect looking specimen of manhood 1 had ever 
seen. What a physique, what a head, what honest gray 
eyes, what ease and yet what strength of bearing. 

I knew that I should see Sidney Wallace again, 
for we were both charmed with the boy, and he — well, 
every one loves Betty. So for four years, knowing, 
Betty, his interest in you, and so watching with no little 
interest the man — with you and away from you — I have 
made a special study of Sidney, and he's always been, 
as you say you have found him, "true blue". And 
I've studied, to quote again, my lady of dreams, with my 
usual "unclely interest", the girl that he loves. 

But what is the mind of man worth when it comes 
to discovering the secrets of a girl's heart? I say it, 
Betty, with all reverence and awe, for I think it very 
beautiful that some women do not show in their faces, 
in their least actions, the secrets of their souls. They 
are theirs to have and to hold, guarded as sacred treasures 
within the keeping of the heart, and the door is shut. 
No one enters until they give the key to the one whom 
they deem worthy of sharing the joy and sanctity of 
those secrets. So it was that, though I thought I had 
read aright your heart, I had not, for while Sidney was 
coming day by day to mean more to you and you were 
beginning to find in him each hour more of the "all", 
I was thinking that you and he were only friends. Little 
did I realize then that you should turn to me one day 
and tell me that you weren't quite sure you loved him 

Page Twenty 



and ask me if I thought your love was "great enough." 
Do I think you a fool for asking me? No, Betty. I 
understand that you have no "older person" for whom 
you care enough to go to. And with a man's customary 
vanity, I must say 1 think I am "just the person" to at 
least drop a seed of truth in your heart. 

Let's see, now. If 1 understand clearly, you knew 
"it" was coming soon — the day when all the sweet things 
he's been saying for years would unite in one big "con- 
fession" — and it did come, the day you'd wished for; 
and it happened to be evening (strangely enough) and 
it "happened" in Cousin Bess* conservatory (memo- 
rable place) and instead, when he had finished speaking, 
of saying, as you had expected to do, the words he was 
waiting to hear, you were only silent and were think- 
ing — 

"Oh, I don't believe I love you enough. I wonder 
if David would know how a person should feel. Perhaps 
dear, old Dave could tell me. I must ask some one." 

So you said, "Sidney, I can't answer you now — 
I must think." And you wrote to me, for, perhaps, 
I loved the little Crip and could tell you. 

Dear Betty, it isn't the Crip, but your old David 
does know what it is to love. This life "study" to which 
he feels called has made it impossible to even dream of 
attaining the girl that he loves. Enough of that. Just 
know that he does understand and, though he is a man 
and you are a girl, he feels that he can help. 

You've had the test which every girl unfor- 
tunately can't have, of knowing him long and well 
and finding him splendid and congenial. And what he 
is without you and what he is to you, association has 
taught you. As for your not being able to know "when 
the moment came", I cannot quite understand that. 
It may have come at the wrong time or you may have 
been feeling tired or a little unnatural. But, out of 

Page Twenty-one 



fairness to him, and, greater still, fairness to yourself, 
I say, wait. Go away for a little while and see if the 
absence means a poignant pain and see if the return 
means the greatest joy on earth. I think it will. I 
think it is true that he is meant to be your "all in all." 
Take it to the "highest Judge," Betty, who understands 
and rules all things and see if it will stand the light of 
His truth. And then — and, oh, believe me when I say 
this, there will come to you — "for man is a spirit" — in 
the depths of your heart a certain holy, very happy 
consciousness — a surety — if you love! Then you will 
know. 

Your old 

"Uncle David." 
X. 

Symptons Related and Unrelated to Medicine. 

Shore-Mountain. 
Sept 2. 
Dear Doc and General Questioner: 

To be honest I must confess I've had the "dumps," 
My pen has dipped itself in sadness and gives you this — 

"The Spider Web." 
I found a sun-sprayed spider web apart, 

Gleaming pearl and silver in the dew. 
And quickly sought to lay the treasure new 
As one, within the keeping of my heart. 
When my dazzled mind in blinding, bitter pain 

Beheld the place was empty where the shrine had 
lain 
And loathed to see the morning's sparkling web again. 

Answer to question one: Yes, I sleep out of doors. 
The house is too small for me. Two: Yes, that hectic 
(I've heard of "hectic flushes " so I suppose that's all 
right) appetite of mine continues and in spite of a good 
gain in weight, I refuse to diet. Three: Yes, Betty 

Page Twetdjf4wo 



writes once in a while; but I believe it's going to stop. 
Doc. It's asking rather too much when she doesn't 
know why I whirled away and am staying away, and 
cares less. Will you help me by not mentioning her 
any more? Four: Yes, I am all right on funds. The 
Psych pamphlets pay beautifully and Dinah economizes 
to the degree — well, you ought to see the color of my 
table cloth; that table cloth represents the season's fruits 
as they pass on. I never could eat cherry pie daintily. 
Five: Supper bats continue and the little Crip and Jacky 
are my "tanglefoot " companions. I send them away 
to bed quite early and sit by the beach fire a little and 
dream alone. It's pleasant dreaming. Yes, even with 
that void in my chest and the dark ship with the ragged 
sails always hovering near the port, the chip off the 
dream-soul of that poet ancestor of mine sends happy 
thoughts into my queer old head and bubbles of hope 
that I once blew out of my meerschaum (before my 
Doctor did his tapping and discovered a leak in the base 
of my windpipe — forgive the lack of technicalities of 
the uninitiated) sometimes float over still and the fire, 
the fly-away sparks and the star-sprinkled sky up into 
which they float lend a lazy haze of enchantment, of 
fairy-like truth to these child-bubbles. I can people 
those dream castles with those I used to know not long 
ago, see them walking down the shore, and sometimes 
I start to rise and speak, to offer them a place by my 
fire (is it childishness or the natural thing for a "lunger", 
can you tell me, you "Searcher of Symptoms?") — then 
the shock to find that they are not my own people but 
one or two of the hotel guests who have strolled un- 
asked up to the sanctity of my shore. And I see that 
the girl is much less lovely and could not be she. I have 
patience now, though, with freaks of fancy I never under- 
stood before. 

Page Twenty-three 



Somehow, Doc, — and this I want you to know 
so you will not pity your lunger — it seems to me a wonder- 
ful thing that you found out when you did, for this 
solitude is a fine thing for the purging of the soul. Some- 
how, back where you are, in the crowded routine, you 
can never get away from it at all, but here, one does 
not have to endure the society even of himself for long 
and if he sees his unpleasant self in the mirror perhaps 
and hears that deeper self within saying, "Hold, I've 
a word for you", he can turn on his heel and flee to the 
mountains and be lost in myriad musings about nature. 

And where does the joy come in? In the gladness 
that God, through you, gave me an oasis where I might 
rest and draw in a deep breath of Nature and think of 
her, of her wonderful power, of her freshness, of her quiet 
beauty; to feel the coolness of the winds from the sea, 
the warmth of the air from the mountains, and to see 
the mad colors of the sky and earth; and, secondly, 
that on this oasis God put a beautiful, brave soul like 
Crip's to teach me great things which I never knew 
before, and the innocent Jacky whose infant mind works 
in strange ways. And so, through these, I am reaching 
a kind of content (safer than the joy we spend our lives 
in chasing) and finally I have come to feel the unmis- 
takable consciousness that there is a God who gives 
a resting place where we need it, a place to prepare for 
his way of living — a way which we shall sometime have 
a chance to tread in the whirl tomorrow, or in the quiet- 
ness beyond. 

XI. 

Which tells of an Unwelcome Guest at Shore-Mountain. 

Shore-Mountain, 

Sept. 18. 
Dear Betty: 

You've really missed my letters? Why havn't 

I written? Mainly, because the little flame of courage. 

Page Twenty-four 



of inspiration that was burning here at Shore-Mountain 
has flickered and gone out. I did not know what a Hght 
it was shedding in my httle world. It happened on a 
calm, quiet night, when the sea was smooth and murmur- 
ing gently on the shore. I think, had there been a storm 
or a high wind, she would have stayed by to fight it out, 
for she has always fought all her life. But the calmness, 
the stillness, seemed to bring her into a very deep sleep. 
Poor little soul! Her pain-racked body didn't allow her 
much sleep and the neighbor who found her said that 
Jacky lay in her arms and they woke him, but she slept 
on; the little light was gone, and with it, her cheery smile, 
her easy laugh, her steady hobble along the shore, her 
patient endurance, her bright words of courage — they 
have gone, and so, Betty, they have left me unmanned 
and I have not had the heart to write. But the realiza- 
tion of the cowardice of letting go has come over me and 
I know that if she has been hovering over Shore-Moun- 
tain these last few weeks, she has been sad and ashamed 
of me, so I've "bucked up." 

I miss Jacky, too. I found that she had saved up a 
meagre sum out of her sacrifice and almost starvation 
for him to have when his Crip was gone. But he hadn't 
a soul in the world to care whether he stayed any longer. 
I knew that Crip would have trusted him with me, 
but since it was impossible for me, an "old bach " without 
much tenderness in his heart and with less knowledge 
of babies to take him, I sent him to Aunt Madge who 
always said she would adopt eight babies if her ship ever 
came in. When you're over in Morristown in the car, will 
you drop in and see him? The sight of his rosy cheeks and 
his big brown eyes will make you glad, I know. 

Don't thank me for my advice, Betty. Your 
happiness is my joy and if by any thought I can bring 
you into that happiness, even the trying does more than 
I can tell you for me. You are not going to tell me any 

Page Tuienty-five 



more "symptoms?" But you are going to wait until 
the final verdict? Just as you think best, dear, though 
remember that I am always interested and your devoted 

"Uncle David". 

XII. 

In Which there is Evidence of Rebellion. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Sept. 27. 
Say what you will, old doctor of mine: 

I'm "with you" and I know that you know. 
What do I want to go to some "high brow" and get 
"tapped" for again? (You beat me around enough). 
You said I had "it" and that's enough for me. I have 
my own private conviction to add to yours for the "power 
to destroy" that's been after me could be no other than 
the "white plague." 

XIII. 

A Kindly Consultation. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Sept. 30. 
Dear Doc: 

Your telegram and the renowned physician both 
arrived yesterday. There was no disobeying your orders, 
so with apology on my tongue and no assurance in my 
bearing, I went up to the man, feeling like a thief in that 
I had come to break in on the first bit of his vacation. 
But it seemed that you had wired the doctor, reminding 
him that you had met him abroad and asking him to 
look at a friend of yours and "label him." 

And, Doc, — I say it with all reverence in my 
heart — there was a certain majesty in his carriage which 
was tempered with so gentle a humility that I felt almost 
as if I were seeing a likeness of the Great Physician 
Himself. There is a wonderful understanding, not pity, 
in his soul for us who are weak, who have so little of man's 

Page Twenlt/'Six 



strength left within us. He asked me to take a walk 
on the shore with him so we strolled up and down on 
"an opal beach washed by purple waves." Now and then 
we stopped with one accord to look out over the foam- 
flecked sea and watch a white cloud floating above and 
an occasional sea-gull swooping down in graceful glides 
to the surface of the water. And the stillness of the 
scene, the quietness of the tall, gray man, with shoulders 
slightly bent, and hands clasped behind him, and his 
keen, dark eyes which seemed to be ever searching the 
world and his fellow men for the best they have to offer, 
all spoke to me and I felt enthralled as if by a kind of 
peace that sometimes steals over one in the presence of 
a man of power or of a woman of infinite tenderness. 
Presently, he suggested that we sit down by a rock. I 
agreed. After a few minutes he said: 

"The sea is gratifying to man — have you ever 
thought why? I think it is because in spite of the same- 
ness of its composition, it presents an ever varying 
appearance. One could watch merely those breakers 
rolling up on the shore and see some new coloring, some 
new and exquisite design, new individuality in each wave. 
The sea is ever changing. And it is so", he said, "with 
the mountains. The sun as it moves along colors the 
great hills in a marvelous way and the clouds and the 
light change their aspect. 'A difference in all things 
similar.' It is so with souls — I'm sure you know of the 
infinite variety in persons. I've been reading your 
articles in the "Onward". In the general make-up of 
man there is always a difference. My life has been a 
study of bodies and in every heart beat there is a difference 
from the heart beat of every-one else. It is comforting 
I think, to know that we are just ourselves. We have 
our little strip of canvas to paint in our own way." 

His thoughts were not new, perhaps, yet I liked 
them. Presently, he laid his ear against my chest and 

Page Twenty-aeeen 



asked me a few questions. Then, looking straight at 
me, he said quietly: 

"There is ammunition left for a good fight, my 
boy, and a man who is put in the front line never re- 
treats. Perhaps he may be needed to hand a cup of 
cold water to the thirsty man that is left. Perhaps he 
alone has strength when the battle is done to carry the 
wounded soldier behind to the ambulance in the rear. 
And always, above the hiss of the shrapnel around him, 
the din of the thundering shells, he can hear if he but 
listen, the words of his Captain, "What is that to thee, 
follow thou me." 

I shall not forget his words, Doc, and I thank 
you for sending me to him. He showed me what a 
whimpering dog I might have been. With Crip gone, 
and Jacky, with whom I lived serving and in serving 
forgot myself, 1 was beginning to feel the powder in my 
eyes and to mind the barrage as it played before me. 
He brought me a message as old as the world, but new 
in its possibilities for me. I have adopted his watch- 
word and now for the practice. 

Your grateful 
David 
XIV. 

The Introduction of a New Friend. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Oct. 7. 
Dear Betty: 

So you love Jacky, too. Bless your heart for going 
to see him! You write, little girl, as if you'd never done 
anything for anyone before. Don't you know that you 
radiate light and sweetness? Don't you know that just 
looking in your kind, beautiful eyes makes a man straight- 
en up, makes him feel as if he had suddenly caught a 
whiff of the sea breeze or a breath of mountain air? 
Your kindness is the more lovely, that you do not have 
to think about it. 

Page Tuieniy-eighl 



So you like to hear about the people I meet? They 
are few and far between, but I have decided I need to 
get out and meet a few people to get recreation from my 
studies and forget them a little each day. With this 
plan in view 1 set out to destroy the conservatism of 
a certain man of means who has been leading a too 
luxurious life around here. 

He was sent to this quiet "un-stylish" place for 
"nerves." He brought his machine, a big car, in which 
he has been riding for four weeks now, alone. He is 
a nice looking chap, tho' rather fat; he lives at the hotel. 
But though there are many unsought damsels who grace 
the hotel veranda each day, he has neglected them 
terribly. How 1 was to destroy this unnatural state of 
affairs I did not know, but 1 soon found the way. I went 
up the road into the mountains this morning for a stroll 
and the lure of the woods and the vigor of the air caused 
me to turn that stroll into a walk of no little distance. 
On my way back, as I was sauntering along the road, 
I heard a metallic purr behind me. Now there are only 
a few automobiles in Shore-Mountain — only one great, 
big one, and it belongs to "Lord Luxury" as I have 
been calling him. As 1 swerved to get out of the way, 
I saw not three feet in front of me a fluttering something 
lying in the dust. So 1 quickly turned back to the 
middle of the road, signaling the machine with my cane 
to stop. As I stooped to pick up the wounded bird, 
the hoarse crunch of brakes grated on my ears, which, 
without the vigorous, emphatic words of the driver would 
have announced the immediate proximity of man and 
machine. 

"Well done", I remarked, with ironical polite- 
ness, picking up the bird in my hand. "You did well 
to stop and also to get rid of explosives within. I often 
relieve myself in that way, though I regret to say my 
words are not always so picturesque. See what you 

Page Tivenly-nine 



might have hit," said I, and moving around to the side 
of the machine, held up the oriole for him to see. 

He stared at the bird with its soft yellow gray 
plumage, and at me for a few minutes in cold silence and 
I fear he might have gone on and in so doing run over 
my foot, had not the little bird fluttered out of my hands. 
He reached out and caught it just in time. The touch 
of its soft feathers seemed to dispel his anger. He 
remarked, with just the lack of expression I was ex- 
pecting. 

"Get in; I'll give you a lift." 

Another fortunate mishap followed or I should 
probably never have seen our grumbling Lord Luxury 
again. Just as we reached the gate of my small "estate", 
the engine gave a queer gasp, choked and died. My 
friend said something which would have sounded better 
in Spanish and then growlingly asked me if I would 
let him have some gasoline. He followed the bird and 
me up the walk and neither one of us said anything. 
The screen was locked, but Dinah had heard our steps 
and soon darkened the door. I put the bird in her 
hands and asked her to bring the gentleman some gas. 
In the meantime, I ushered him into the living room. 
I generally don't mind silences, but, gad, that man looked 
formidable to me as he leaned his great, hulking frame 
against my frail mantle. Having refused two invitations 
to be seated, he glowered at the door, his eyes fairly 
bulging with grumpy anticipation of Dinah and the can. 
Now, Betty, even if this is not a romance, don't laugh. 
What do you think ailed him? Collect your data. It 
was supper time; he was boarding at a third rate hotel 
and at this crucial moment the teasing odor of broiling 
chops and the aroma of coffee drifted into the room. I 
saw his eyes bulge, his nostrils distend like a wild animal 
when he scents his postponed dinner and then he seemed 
to collapse, his shoulders fell and all the eagerness and 

Page Thirty 



anticipation left him. But I had my cue. I cleared 
my throat, and, edging toward the door, said in my 
most offhand manner, 

"So glad this little difficulty occurred. You must 
stay and munch a bite with me. Oh, say now, tea and 
toast has been served at the "Grand Slam" — you mustn't 
refuse." And, knowing that he wouldn't, I slid out of 
the door and nearly felled Susan and the can in the hall, 
in my anxiety to tell her that I would not "dine alone." 

We ate on the side porch — not to encourage my 
guest's appetite, but to let nature have its calming 
effect upon us. Do you know, when he had made way 
with his fourth chop and swallowed the last drop of 
his third cup of coffee, he looked at me and said in an 
almost tearful voice. 

"Tea and toast, did you say? Why, man, all we 
get for supper is an undergrown saucer of breakfast 
food — do you hear me — breakfast food, and a seagreen 
dish of rhubarb." 

"Dinah," I called over my shoulder, "you can cut 
that watermelon now." 

The moral of my little tale is this — all gold does 
not glitter, or the fat man's grouch may mean a starving 
stomach. 

I dubbed him Starving Sam — for Sam is his name — 
to which he replied by giving me the expressive name of 
"Life-saving Dave." Then and there he predicted many 
trips and joyous times in a long, low, black "road killer" 
for Sam and David. I wish you could hear his slang. 
Even you would listen with awe, and you'd love him for 
his good heart and jolly ways. 

How's the heart, Betty dear? Has he come back? 
The other night I dreamed I was whirling through space 
when I suddenly caught him by the collar, deposited 
him at your feet and shrieked out loudly, "Let there be 

Page Thirty-one 



love." But that was only a dream. In my right mind 
I am your calm 

"Uncle David." 

XV. 

Musings. 

Shore-Mountain, 

Nov. 8. 
What a fall this has been, Betty dear! 

The dawn mantled itself in gray and blue, and 
the twilight spread over the mountains long pale rose 
clouds. Autumn was loth to leave and gave us some 
warm-hearted weather to bar the approach of her stern 
brother. 

Brown and gold lay the carpet in the woods. 
Occasional butterflies fluttered their wings among the 
red-tinged leaves, playing away their short lives. On 
the wall beneath the softly stirring trees I saw a furry 
nut-gatherer, pausing to feel his gladness in this gra- 
cious extension of his work time. The honeysuckle 
dared to bloom again and mingled its sweetness with the 
lighter scent of the garden flowers. The lazy hum of 
an overworked lawn mower and the sociable thump of 
tennis balls joined in the chorus of thrush and robin. 
Following the winding road up through the valley we 
passed heavily laden chestnut and apple trees. On a 
village green a vagrant "animal show" took up its gypsy 
stand. Further on one saw in a farm yard a group of 
boys working over the large vats of fragrant sorghum. 

All about this warm medley of sights and sounds 
the mountains stood, changing under the sun's great 
light from morning's misty gray to the gold, green and 
brown of noon, and in the evening clad in their guardian 
robes of rich and restful blue. Our artist friend Frost 
did wonders those days. He turned the oak leaves red 
in the night, and in the morning dipped his brush in his 
white paints, outlined and chased the green and red 

Page Thirty-two 



leaves, fashioned of the dried-up field flowers white stars 
and made the long grass slim white reeds. Then he 
spread it all out for the dawn to see when she came up 
in a rose-gold glow. 

Are you sure that it isn't his going that has caused 
this "ache? " Betty, what could it have been? If I 
could only understand. But you, complex, little thing, 
what interesting reading you'll be for the man who some 
day masters your love! But all that matters now is 
that you are tired. 

I don't lapse into poetry often, I give you my 
word, but here is an attempt for you; just try and get 
a little comfort from the thought which is "writ " for your 
comfort. 

"Mountaineer." 
O mountaineer craving the heights above. 

When thou thy stone-spread way hast gained and 
lie 
Where winds' wild wings beat upon the boughs that cry 

The poignant loss of softening mists of Love, 
And thou art left, alas, alone 

Where winter and thy heart are one — 
God grant, thou mayst recall another barren tree. 

Another cry — "Eli-Lami-Sabacthani." 

XVI 

"Merry Christmas." 

Shore-Mountain. 
Dec. 20. 
Betty Dear! 

Winter cannot take from these hills their glory; 
rather, I think, she strips them of the gorgeous garb 
of autumn that they may be revealed in their true per- 
fection; holding little memory of the fall and no promise 
of spring — their forms are outlined in royal simplicity; 
to their sides cling the spruce and hemlock, always green. 

Page Thirty-three 



but more abundant are the oak and sycamore — asleep. 
Asleep — but not silent, for across them the twilight 
casts a magic light, a violet-rose for which man has no 
special name. 

And the month of December permits to him who 
dreams a sweet experience; he may ascend at evening 
Sunset Mountain and there he may see the sun in its 
splendor of gold; watch the stars emerge, and the lights 
steal out of the dark of the village below. There away 
from the stamp of fretful feet he may think as he stands 
looking down into the lake of lights — reflections of the 
stars o'erhead — of the similitude between an ancient 
Bethlehem, cradling an infant Saviour and this city in 
the hills — "A saving health to all nations." — 

"Merry Christmas" 
David. 
XVII. 

Betty's Solution 

Shore-Mountain, 
Dec. 26. 
Dear Betty: 

So the "light has dawned." "In a different way 
than I think? God's ways are many, dear, but to be sure 
that you've found one of them is all that this heart of 
mine should ask. That I am the cause of it — Betty, to 
be the cause of your happiness is a greater joy than 
I ever sought and I accept it in gratitude. I am going 
to put it on the other side of the scales, for the big realiza- 
tion that I am no longer needed in Betty's world has 
terribly unbalanced them. 

"Sam" and I have had many fine rides. We're 
both learning things. He's teaching me how to laugh. 
I don't know that I'm giving him much but a good square 
meal now and then. He says though that our camp- 
fire evenings together are warming his heart, God bless 
him, and that he's learned to love the sunset and stars 
as he never did before. I'm glad of that. 

Page Thirty-four 



This is a sort of goodbye letter, dear. Now that 
you know — he can be that "all in all". I shall miss 
hearing from you, but sort of guessing how it will be, I 
can't ask that time of you which he might have and better 
deserve. Will I tell you if I'm not the least bit in love 
with some one? Just this — when "Uncle David" pros- 
trates himself at the feet of a blushing damsel, he'll 
telephone you and you can bring the moving picture 
machine and you'll be in possession of the thrilling reel 
entitled "How he sought her and caught her." 

God bless Betty! 

XVIII. 

New Year's Eve. 

Shore-Mountain, 
Dec. 31. 
Dear Doc: 

Tomorrow, Time will usher in another day. New 
Year's Eve lies moon-bathed this fair night. How low 
the mountains seem, lit with a magic blue in soft contrast 
to the starry light within the house; the pines stand 
out in sharp, black outline near my balcony. All the 
little earth is spread in still beauty beneath the wondrous 
sky o'er head where the stars are clear, and the moon — ? 
She shines tonight not for lovers, nor for song and dance, 
but somehow to be a heavenly witness of the something 
above towards which these human hopes of ours lift 
their eternal hills. 

Worrying days are over, Doc. The worst of the 
fight is "fit", the part you really feared when you were 
afraid that I would not hold on in faith and courage. 
It hurt to know that you didn't trust me to fight to 
the winning or the losing — it hurt though I knew your 
fears were not groundless and that I was weak. 

Night after night, I've strolled out on the light- 
house pier and listened to the "swurf" of the dark waters 
on the stony bases and heard them call. Voices seemed 

Page Thirty- fioe 



to rise out of the black, whirling depths, taunting in 
lifeless, loveless accents; but I lacked courage, or perhaps 
I always held on to the faint hope that health might 
"come back to his vacant dwelling" and an awful pain 
in my heart might stop. Then, not many nights ago, 
something else happened. Have you ever watched the 
last pale lights of night sink away into the darkness? 
Often I've done it up here and I had a foolish idea about 
one little star — that, somehow, it shone for me alone 
because, perhaps, I was vain enough to think it did 
not shine for any other fellow on this earth more than 
for me. Well, it was sort of like that bright star sinking 
away into the darkness. You see. Doc, someone on the 
other side called and I lost it. Why use figures to you! 
I had to give her up. 1 couldn't let her live in my heart 
any more where I have kept her so long. I did not 
know I would take it as I did. I used to say to myself, 
"It will always be the same. I can still love and that will be 
enough. " But I found that God had put a shovelful 
of plain earth into the making of me. She wrote me 
about the other man. I took her letter and made for 
the bleak, damp shore. It was a windy night and the 
waves were pelting the beach. Earth, wind and waves 
seemed to my all-edge self to be rending my very soul 
for entrance, to tear from me the most precious thing 
I had ever owned. The fiercer, the more terrible, the 
storming became, the more wildly the beating against 
my heart. And all the time I could see the boy's face 
(and the worse since he was only a boy) ; I could see him 
standing against the dark sky holding out his hand for 
his possession which I could not give him. As I stood 
there, wild rebellion and hatred storming in my heart, 
I saw the red flicker of the lighthouse lamp — then I 
laughed aloud. How easy! If I could not give her up, 
I could give myself up and it would be the same. Treas- 
ure and all could drop into the dark depths and for only 
a second would even the waters give sign that there 

Pais ThMy-aix 



existed such a raving maniac, storming against man and 
fate and God. Courage came then out of my very weak- 
ness. I found myself at the very end of the pier. I 
think I ran the last few steps and then just as I lurched 
forward to drop over, something crashed. I say crashed 
because, though it came from within, I felt my very ears 
go deaf with the noise of it. I heard it before it was 
too late. To you, dear Doc, who have had the higher 
vision before, it will seem a simple thing. You read my 
story before 1 tell you. God alone knows when I ever 
heard these words before — He alone knew to send them 
to me then. I heard the words more clearly than human 
lips could ever have spoken them in the awful din of 
the sea's rush. "Stop! " And then, "When he suffered, 
he threatened not but committed himself to Him that 
judgeth righteously. " It was so easy. Doc. I slept that 
night under a sky lit by a million golden lights. When 
morning came, the peace was still there and I knew that 
I had found "the shepherd and bishop of my soul." 

Yesterday I ran into Grovertown and saw the 
old physician. Sam went along with me. The doctor 
said my condition was astounding, that he had not be- 
lieved it possible. He said I could stand a trip to Colo- 
rado. 

Have you ever heard of Cranman's Creek-* Well, 
out there in the keeping of the Rockies, Dr. Lawrence 
has always planned to found a Sanatorium for "lungers' ; 
he asked me if I would go and start it. I told him I 
would give my soul for "lungers. " 

Sam and I did not talk much on the way home. 
I was thinking too deeply. I think 1 had almost forgotten 
his presence. After we were seated by the fire in my 
living room I told him of the doctor's offer. 

"Sam, is it not wonderful," I said, "that I should 
be able to do something for those for whom my heart 
feels the strongest thrills of sympathy •>" 

Page Thirly-aeoen 



He did not answer and I turned to see if he had 
understood. He was looking at me and in those eyes 
of his was the tenderest, saddest look I've ever seen. 

"David," he said, and I could scarcely distinguish 
his words, his voice was so husky, "I 've wanted to do things 
ever since I've known you, to give things away, things 
I've spent all my life hoarding, because learning the 
things you've taught me has been my only real joy. 
Will you take some of my selfish wealth along with you 
to Cranman's Creek?" 

I was silent for a minute, my eyes searching the 
depths of his, their silver tenderness, their dark hunger. 
At last I found voice. 

"And you?" I questioned. 

"Does that matter?" he asked. 

"Most of all," I answered. 

Then the joyful love that came over his face — it 
was a sight worth a weary walk to see. He knew that 
the giver, too, was wanted. 

So, Doc, when you bunk it to Denver next summer, 
get a horse and travel up Lighthouse Valley to Cranman's 
Creek. God willing, you will find there a happy resting 
place. Ask for Sam and your faithful "lunger" 

David. 



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